


tried to wash you away (but you just won’t leave)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Ward x Simmons Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4675568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma doesn't sleep well without Grant.</p><p>[For the <b>Sleep</b> theme at Ward x Simmons Summer.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	tried to wash you away (but you just won’t leave)

**Author's Note:**

> All caught up on comments, go me! 
> 
> This takes place in the same verse as my [sleepless drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4672241/chapters/10663061), but you shouldn't need to read that to understand this. For the Ward x Simmons Summer theme **Sleep**.
> 
> Title from Halsey's _Haunting_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

This interrogation has not been a traditional one.

Not that Jemma truly has enough experience with interrogations to personally know what’s traditional, but she’s fairly certain _this_ isn’t it. She hasn’t been harmed or threatened—hasn’t even been politely _asked_ to hand over intelligence.

Instead, she’s been flirted with—and quite a bit. Which she supposes is just the sort of risk one runs when one has been kidnapped by one’s ex-boyfriend.

Every move Grant has made since having her abducted from her hotel seems to have been aimed at underlining their romantic history. In addition to flirting with instead of interrogating her, he’s also made frequent reference to inside jokes, happily reminisced about their holiday in St. Lucia, and had her favorite meal brought in as dinner.

All in all, he’s treated this more like a date than an interrogation. Blatantly.

So when he looks at his watch and declares it time to call it a night, she supposes she only has herself to blame for not seeing his question coming.

“So, where would you like to sleep? Here, or in my bed?”

She’s certain the offer is meant as a taunt. It’s a power play—so many of the things Grant does these days are—intended to remind her of the fact that, once, it wouldn’t have been in question where she would sleep.

Just as he’s spent all day _reminding_ her of their relationship, he’s now daring her to deny it—to choose sleeping in this cold, sterile interrogation room over his quarters.

If she were stronger, she would.

But she’s spent more than a year longing for him, tossing and turning at night, unable to truly relax enough to sleep without his arms around her and his chest at her back. Though it’s pathetic and ridiculous, she’s accepted that she’ll _never_ adjust to his absence.

And now, faced with the chance to actually sleep—to for once have an easy night, to recapture the peace she found in his arms when they were together—she’s simply not a good enough person to decline.

So she meets his eyes evenly, lifts her chin, and steels herself against the possibility of ridicule. (It’s not out of the question that this entire day has merely been a means of tormenting her.)

“If it’s all the same to you,” she says, “I’d rather your bed.”

She thinks she surprises him with it; for a heartbeat, he doesn’t react at all.

Then he grins, wide and smug, and pushes off the wall he’s been leaning against.

“Oh, baby,” he says, rounding the table to pull her to her feet, “It’s not the same to me at all. I’d definitely prefer you in my bed.”

His hands slide over her hips and grip her gently, and her breath catches as he tugs her into his space. It’s been so long since she was this close to him—even here, he’s kept the table between them all day—and she can’t help the way she melts against him.

Something in her chest, a horrible tightness she’s been forced to grow accustomed to, unlocks as his arms circle her. Then, as she hugs him in return, it disappears entirely.

For the first time in a year, she breathes freely.

“Well,” Grant says. “That was easier than I expected.”

He’s gloating, but there’s a question there, as well. She tries to remind herself that she doesn’t owe him any explanations—that he’s a murderer and a traitor, that he not only works for the enemy but literally _is_ the enemy, now, that he’s taken over HYDRA and made it his own—that he _kidnapped_ her, for goodness’ sake—but it doesn’t do much good.

She’s spent all this time missing him even as she hated him. All of her attempts to move on were doomed from the start; how can she ever feel anything for anyone else when she still can’t sleep for Grant’s absence from her bed?

She’s not selfless enough to deny herself this. She should be—she _wants_ to be—but she’s just not.

“I don’t sleep well without you,” she admits. The sudden lack of the tension which has weighed her down for so long leaves her a little light-headed; she rests her head against his chest, letting the steady beat of his heart ground her. “So I might as well take advantage of the opportunity while I’m here.”

He laughs, and she feels the rumble of his chest all the way down to her toes.

“ _While you’re here_ is gonna be a very long time, baby,” he says, fingers twining in her hair. “I’m not letting you go.”

It should trouble her that her immediate reaction to that statement is relief. In fact, it _does_ trouble her.

But she’s exhausted, and his warmth is seeping into her long-chilled bones, and she simply can’t be bothered with negative emotions right now. The team will come for her, she’s certain, and in the meantime…

In the meantime, she wants to sleep next to him again. She wants the security she’s missed for so long.

“If you say so,” she says.

“I do say so.” He holds her close for a moment longer, then steps back, catching her hand and lacing their fingers in the process. “I’m on the top floor, by the way. Is that gonna be a problem for you?”

Her once-overwhelming fear of heights has faded to mere discomfort, but it warms her that he thinks to ask.

“No,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” he says, and leads the way out of the interrogation room.

Their trip through the building is made in silence, but a comfortable one. The corridors are mostly empty, and those people they do pass all make themselves scarce at once. Jemma doesn’t pay it much mind; the majority of her attention remains focused on Grant’s hand in hers—the warmth of it, the familiarity.

Once, everything about him was familiar. He’s a different man now in so many ways, but there was a time she knew him as well as she knew herself—if not better.

They were together for so long. Is it really such a surprise that she’s felt empty without him? He was such a large part of her life—such a large part of _her_ —for years. Of course his absence was—is—noticeable.

She can be excused for missing him so much, can’t she?

Grant breaks the silence as the lift’s doors open on what must be his living room.

“You’re quiet. Deep thoughts?” he asks.

“Not really,” she says. Her eyes move over the room, seeing dark wood and leather furnishings without really absorbing them. “Just tired.”

“We’ll save the tour for tomorrow, then,” he says. “Bedroom’s this way.”

Before guiding her to his bedroom, Grant pauses to key something into the pad next to the lift. She’s not at an angle to see _what_ , precisely, he punches in, but it results in a beep and a metallic sort of _thunk_ , after which the light at the top of the pad turns red.

Jemma doesn’t need to be a genius to know that he’s just locked down the lift; she’s well and truly trapped.

“Just eliminating temptation,” he tells her with a slight smile. “Come on.”

She doesn’t bother to inform him that she wasn’t plotting escape. Either he wouldn’t believe her, in which case she’ll have wasted her breath, or he _would_ believe her, and likely become insufferably smug as a result. Better to save herself the trouble.

So she follows him to his bedroom without comment.

It’s a good thing she _isn’t_ frightened of heights any longer; the first thing her eyes catch on, entering his room, is the far wall, which is made entirely of windows. It’s dark outside, of course, and the lamps in the room turn the windows into makeshift mirrors, but she can still make out the lights of the city beyond the reflections. It’s obvious that they’re very high up, and it’s likely that this time last year, just a glance at the view would have sent her straight into a panic attack.

Fortunately, she’s left heights behind in favor of other, worse fears, so she’s able to enter the room with nothing more than a grimace.

After closing the door behind them, Grant squeezes her hand once and then lets go.

“Bathroom’s through there,” he says, motioning to a door to their left. “I’ll get you something to sleep in…unless you were planning on sleeping naked?”

There’s a note in his voice which suggests he’s very much in favor of this possibility—not that she needs it to know that, considering the way he’s looking at her. It stirs heat in her gut, but…

“No,” she says evenly. “I wasn’t.”

He sighs. “Pity.”

Sleeping beside him is forgivable, surely, but sex would be much less so.  So she accepts the shirt he offers and—in the name of avoiding temptation (on _both_ of their parts)—changes in the bathroom.

Of course, it’s possible that there’s no winning in this scenario. There’s no way she could trust herself to be naked in the same room as Grant, because sex would inevitably follow, but the look he gives her when she steps out of the bathroom wearing his shirt…

Feeling exposed under the weight of his gaze, she crosses her arms over her chest. Grant smiles.

“Sight for sore eyes,” he says, and gestures to the bed. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right out.”

The absent kiss he presses to her hair as he passes her stirs something more—something _worse_ —than heat in her. Longing, perhaps, or maybe grief.

But she’s still too tired for such heavy emotion to endure, and it slides away from her as easily as water as she climbs into bed. Doubt tries to replace it, a tiny voice in the back of her mind whispering a list of crimes in an attempt to remind her of just whose bed she’s lying in, and for a moment—

But it’s not long before Grant joins her, and doubt, too, falls away as the mattress shifts under his weight.

His arms slip around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, and her eyes flutter closed of their own volition.  

It’s not _precisely_ the same. He gained additional muscle while he was locked in Vault D (hardly surprising, when all he had to occupy himself with was exercise), and it appears he’s gone to the effort of maintaining it: his hold is even more firm than it used to be, his arms more solid. And he seems to have changed soaps, as the scent surrounding her is unfamiliar.

But for all that, his embrace is no less comforting than it used to be. They still fit together perfectly, even after all this time.

It’s exactly what she’s been longing for, and for the first time in a very, very long while, she thinks she’ll fall asleep with no trouble at all.

She’s looking forward to it, but it seems that Grant has other ideas.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he murmurs. His hand flattens on her abdomen, and the pure _want_ that rises up to meet it is enough to wake her up a little. “I’m not letting you go.” He kisses her shoulder, stubble scraping bare skin where the collar of her—his—shirt has slipped. “I won’t let you walk away from me again.”

She’s drowning in him, nothing to focus on but the warmth of his body, the scent of his soap, and the sound of his voice, and it leaves her at a disadvantage. It’s that, more than a desire to look at the windows she’s facing, that has her opening her eyes. She needs the distraction, something beyond him filling her senses.

“You walked away from me first,” she says.

It’s the truth. _He_ was the one who left, who stole Skye and the Bus from Providence, revealed himself a traitor and never looked back. All of her actions were _reactions_ , all of her moves made solely in response to steps he had already taken.

“True,” he admits. This time, his kiss lands on her neck, and her heart skips a beat. “But I’m not walking away this time—and neither are you.”

There’s conviction in his voice, a dark promise that stirs all the wrong emotions in her, and Jemma bites her lip, fighting herself.

He’s done horrible things: murdered countless innocents, _tortured_ and murdered her fellow SHIELD agents, led HYDRA in sowing global destruction…just last week, he nearly _killed_ Mack and Bobbi. And she’s not naïve enough to think that he’ll stop if she agrees to stay with him—if anything, he’ll likely get worse. They’ve known for some time now that his men have orders to avoid hurting her; more than once, her presence has been the only thing to prevent mass casualties.

He’s not the man she fell in love with. He’s _evil_.

And yet here she is.

It’s silly to think that she’s at a disadvantage with her eyes closed. How could she be at anything _but_ a disadvantage, after so easily—so _eagerly_ —crawling into bed with him?

None of the monstrous things he’s done have been enough to quell her longing for him, even when they were separated by both distance and time. Here and now, lying in his bed, surrounded by him for the first time in ages?

Realistically speaking, she never stood a chance.

So what’s the use in denying her heart?

She finds his hand with hers and entwines their fingers, and a thrill runs through her at the way he smiles against her skin. She doesn’t fight it; instead, she lets herself enjoy it, lets it chase away some of her lingering doubt.

This won’t be easy. Nothing ever is.

But she’s tired of fighting.

“No,” she says, and squeezes his hand. “I’m not.”

“That sounded like a promise,” he observes.

She thinks she hears a touch of hope in his voice, though it’s feasible she’s only projecting, listening for what she _wants_ to be there. And, of course, it’s always possible that he’s put it there deliberately to manipulate her.

But she chooses to believe that it’s there and sincere.

It makes it feel less like surrender when she says, “It was.”

“Good.” Grant kisses her neck again, and the hand not holding hers moves to her leg to trail rough fingers up the outside of her thigh. “Does that mean sex is back on the table?”

Something about the way he says it…

“Are you asking because you want me?” she asks. “Or because you know I’ll never be able to face the team again if I say yes?”

He chuckles lowly, a sound she feels more than hears, and—in one smooth, impossible to follow move—rolls her under him.

Her eyes have, by now, adjusted to the darkness of the room, and there’s enough light coming in from the city outside the windows that she can see the grin he’s wearing as he settles over her.

“Can’t it be both?” he asks.

The weight of him is as familiar as his embrace was, and she inhales slowly, struggling against a wave of poorly-timed emotion that has tears stinging at her eyes.

“It can,” she says. “But which reason is more pressing?”

In response, he laughs, louder this time, and kisses her.

It’s…sweet. The last time he kissed her, it was demanding—punishing—and meant more to control her than anything else. But there’s affection in this kiss, and the way his fingers slide over her jaw makes her think perhaps she isn’t the only one who’s been doing a bit of longing.

The kiss drags out, long enough that they’re both breathless when Grant finally pulls away, and she’s so lost in it that it takes her a moment to _accept_ that it’s ended, to open her eyes and let her hand fall away from his hair.

The smile he’s aiming at her is just as affectionate as the kiss was. Her heart twists in a way that is surprisingly pleasant.

“Always full of questions,” he says, the rough quality to his voice doing nothing to disguise the fondness in it.

“You didn’t answer it,” she reminds him.

His smile widens into a grin. “No, I didn’t.” His hand finds her leg again and runs up her thigh to rest under her shirt. “I always want you, Jemma, but…” He gives a little shrug. “Some insurance is nice.”

She shifts her shoulders, trying to ease the tightness in them.

“I’m in your bed of my own free will,” she says. “In your apartment, which I literally _cannot_ leave without your assistance. And even if I could, this building is filled to bursting with people—a good portion of whom are very dangerous—that work for you and would be all too happy to keep me from walking out.” She reaches for his face, fingers tracing the familiar contours. “And I don’t _want_ to walk out. What more insurance do you need?”

He catches her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles, then lowers it to the bed.

“More never hurts,” he says, brushing her hair away from her neck almost absently. “So? What do you say?”

She hesitates. Certainly, she’s missed him sexually just as much as she’s missed him emotionally, and the pulse between her thighs urges her to say yes.

But she’s had sex—good sex, even—in the last year, whereas she hasn’t had a decent night of unassisted sleep since before SHIELD first fell. The conversation (and the kiss) has woken her up a little, but she can still feel exhaustion tugging at her, weighing her limbs down.

“Ask me again in the morning,” she says. “Right now, I just want to sleep.”

He sighs, obviously disappointed, but the quick kiss he gives her is just as sweet as the last one.

“Fair enough,” he says, and shifts off of her. “You do look exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”

“I told you,” she says, as they resettle themselves, “I don’t sleep well without you—and it’s been a long time since the Bus.”

“It has,” he agrees. He takes her hand again as he kisses her hair, and she smiles to herself. “Go to sleep then, baby. I’m right here.”

She doesn’t think it will be that easy. She’s expecting the intensity of the conversation they’ve just shared—to say nothing of the arousal she’s still feeling—to counteract at least a little of the comfort of his presence and keep her awake for a while.

Instead, warm and secure for the first time in more than a year, she drops into a dreamless sleep almost at once.

**Author's Note:**

> Just fyi, since it's been asked, this fic is _not_ part of the "did i fall asleep" verse. There are, admittedly, some similarities, but this is definitely not how they end up together in that verse.


End file.
